Timelines
by phantazein
Summary: Because, Todd knew, if it had been him? If it had been him with a gun to his head, ready to pull the trigger? Only one person would have come to mind. Eventual slash, rating for offensive language/suicidalness.
1. Prologue

Why couldn't he have been the reason Neil didn't pull the trigger?

Ashamed though he was to admit it, this was the first thought that crossed through Todd's mind when he heard the news.

Why?

Why did Neil mean so much more to him than he did to Neil?

Because, Todd knew, if it had been him? If it had been him with a gun to his head, ready to pull the trigger? Only one person would have come to mind. And with that one thought, within that one moment, Todd would have put the gun back down and walked away, because Neil would have been reason enough to keep living, even if every other part of him wanted to die.

So why couldn't he have affected Neil the same way?

And why would he expect to?

Sure, there had been moments. But that was all they were—moments. Disjointed, disconnected from the rest of the world. They had no place in Neil's timeline, in his life. Hell, Todd realized, they might not even have existed after all.

Because if Todd could make himself believe, even for a few seconds, that he meant enough to someone to keep them from killing themselves… and if that turned out to be false… what else had he just made himself believe? What else had he thought that was just… so… damn… wrong?

With every tick of the wristwatch, every new, terrible idea that swirled through his mind, and with every soft, shuffling step towards what used to be Neil Perry's desk, Todd was sure that he was going to die right there. Just… poof. Disappear. Cease to exist, as his parents certainly wished he would have done years ago, as Todd was sure Neil wouldn't have minded.

Because killing yourself and killing your best friends had the same consequences. You could never see them again. Never look upon their faces, hear their voices or their laughter or smell their tears as they cried into their wall, hoping you were too slow to realize what they were doing. And when Neil had killed himself, Todd thought, he had essentially kept himself alive and killed everyone around him. Or put himself in a box. He existed, they existed, but there was no contact between the two. And to do something like that, he thought, you would have to really hate everyone. To not have anything to live for. Which meant, Todd concluded, that Neil didn't care about any of them. That they, that he, meant nothing to Neil, no matter how many moments, disjointed or otherwise, had happened between them.


	2. Certainty

Todd was sure that there had been moments. Or, at least, he had been sure. Nothing was sure now, nothing was certain. He had been certain that he was worth something to Neil. He had been certain that Neil was happy enough, even with the way his father treated him. He had been certain that there had been more than just friendship between the two of them… not necessarily romantic, Todd assured himself, but just something… more.

Like when the Captain had given that assignment. That damned assignment. And Todd had tried to complete it, he really truly had. He had worked hours on it, probably more than anyone else. And it was all utter shit, the entire attempt was a joke. But Neil hadn't thought it was… he thought it could have been worth something, wanted to read it, out of something that wasn't just polite curiosity. Because, even as Todd was certain that nothing could really be certain anymore, he was fairly sure that one didn't grab someone else's poem and run around a shared dormitory with it out of polite curiosity. He was almost certain that could be agreed upon by most people.

_Things That Are Still More or Less Certain_

_1. I will never see Neil again._

_2. One does not grab another's poem and run around a shared dormitory trying to read it if they are just politely curious._

But, if not just polite curiosity, then why had Neil tried so desperately to read the poem? Was it because it was something that was clearly bothering Todd, obviously making him miserable? Todd had sat on his bed for an obscene amount of time, just staring at the blank page in front of him. Pen poised, determination strong, ideas flowing. But as soon as they flowed from his mind to his hand, his hand to the pen, and scratched themselves onto the paper, where everyone could see them and read them aloud and hear them and laugh at them, worthless things that they were, they just seemed… wrong. And the piece of paper that Neil had torn from his grasp was the third or fourth or fifth of such pieces, the others having been completely and utterly ruined, covered in black spots and holes where Todd had been a bit too eager to cross out his thoughts, to keep the world from having another chuckle at his expense.

Neil had seem him doing this, and even if he couldn't understand exactly what the actions meant, anyone would be able to see that they were the result of some unknown amount of distress. Neil was a good person. A great friend, the best son his parents could have hoped for, a born leader, and… and the world would never be able to see what he could do. The people he could have saved, the stories he could have brought to life on the stage, the beauty he would have given to the world… all gone. Dead. Just like Neil.

And Todd cried. He hadn't cried before. He had screamed, had tried to run, had put a few dents in his wall, but now he was far too tired for any of that. Now, he just cried, collapsing onto Neil's desk. The sharp edge of the wooden furniture bent him in half, leaving red marks in his skin and creases in his clothing. But it didn't matter, nothing mattered. Just to get as deep into this desk as it was possible to. To smell the wood, the grain, the cleaner, to try to find Neil's scent buried somewhere below it. To find a scratch or worn down part or pen mark that Neil had absentmindedly run his fingers over when he was lost in thought. To read the last thing Neil had written here… but to discover something like that would be far too much to hope for. The desk had been cleaned, cleared out so it held no memories of its previous user. In just a few days some lucky bastard on the waiting list would get his acceptance letter, if he hadn't already. Todd wanted, just then, to do nothing more than find that poor boy and wring his neck.

But as quickly as the desire came, it went again. Whoever the kid was, he didn't deserve that. Todd had been lucky. When he was new, Neil had been nice to him. Had made him feel included and wanted and important, and Todd should do the same thing for the new kid. Which he wouldn't.

Of course it wasn't the other boy's fault, and he certainly didn't deserve to have his neck wrung because he was the next one on the waiting list. And Todd wouldn't hurt him, wouldn't try to get him thrown out or make trouble for him… but he couldn't do what Neil had done. Couldn't reach out, couldn't get to know the new boy. Because he, whoever he ended up being, would only ever remind Todd of the student he took the place of. He couldn't do as Neil had done, couldn't look after a reminder of his dead best friend. Couldn't grab assignments and try to make away with them because he could see the other boy was having real trouble with them.

Which brought Todd right back 'round to where he had started. Had Neil actually wanted to read the poem, to get inside Todd's head? Or had he wanted to make Todd laugh, to lift the gloom that had settled around his roommate? Out of polite consideration of the other boy's feelings, or because the dreary mood was too much to bear? Had Neil actually cared at all, or was it just out of self-interest that he had disturbed the sullenness? Todd wasn't sure…

_Things That Are Still More or Less Certain_

_1. I will never see Neil again._

Damn. Well, if that was all that he had to lean on, all that he could understand as being certain, then it would have to do for now.

He would never see Neil again.

He would never see Neil again.

He would never see Neil again.

It was a depressing mantra, sure. A gloomy, dismal chant that had attached to it none of the energy and hopefulness that chants are generally associated with, but merely a grim, fierce determination that this, at least, would remain true, and that, with the certainty of at least this one thing in mind, Todd would be able to persevere.

Because, even though it wasn't exactly uplifting, in a world where everything had suddenly been turned the wrong way, shifted and shaken up until nothing was recognizable any more, one cheerless fact could act as a beacon of light. A stabilizer. As Neil had been in his life, so he was in his death.

He would have been so happy.


	3. Prisons

**A/N: Nope, don't own Dead Poets Society. I have this fantasy where the REAL owners come and ask me to write the screenplay for a sequel, but until that happens I have no rights to this and am making no money from it.**

**So I know that I fail and haven't updated this in quite literally forever, but I have about a page of the next chapter already written, plus an outline that spans the next ten or fifteen chapters, so updates will be coming at least semi-regularly from now on.  
Also: this chapter includes a couple offensive lines, including one that uses the "n-word." I'll give an explanation for this at the end of the chapter (because an explanation now would require spoilers).**

* * *

His new roommate would be arriving after winter break, but that didn't matter now, because Todd was finally going home. Somehow he had managed to get through his classes and midterms and now, at last, he could get away from this prison. Because without Mr. Keating, without Charlie and Neil, and without the Dead Poets Society meetings, Hellton truly started to earn its name.

Though, Todd reflected glumly, the prison he was exchanging this one for couldn't exactly be called better. It might even, under other circumstances, be considerably worse. But at least at home, there was no hope. No expectations, except that he would be given disappointed, disapproving looks multiple times per minute. But Neil had never been there, so there could be no reason to expect to see his face, to look for him in the dining hall, to open his mouth to protest when Cameron sat in his seat during class.

Todd continued to list the reasons why home was currently preferable to Hellton. This was such a difficult activity, though, that he had only added two more points to his list (that the food was infinitely better, and that there wasn't a second, empty bed across from his that reminded him of what happened as he tried to sleep) before his mother cleared her throat. Somehow he had managed to carry his bags all the way out to the car while lost in thought.

"Stop standing there like a simpleton and get in the damn car," she shouted impatiently. Except that she didn't shout--she never shouted. She was far too aristocratic for any noise above a poisonous hiss, always directed at her younger, worthless son.

She herself got into the front passenger's seat and shut her door with a soft click, leaving Todd to hand his bags to their driver. The driver, a man of about sixty with glistening silver hair and a mustache to match, accepted them with a simple nod and began loading the luggage into the car's trunk while Todd slid into the back seat. By the time Todd had clicked his seatbelt closed, the driver was already in the front seat of the car, waiting patiently for his passengers to be ready.

Then the poisonous hiss again.

"Close your door."

Todd sighed and reached for his door, wincing has he pulled it towards him. To his mother, the door was just a door. It had to be closed, else it might fly off its hinges on the highway, or hit a tree on a small road, or at the very least would let the snow and wind and cold into the plush interior of the car. To Todd, though, closing the door was like locking himself into a prison. A prison of metal and cloth, of fears and hatred. As the car left Hellton grounds and merged onto the highway, Todd briefly considered crashing the door open and letting the wind overcome him and take away this trapped feeling, but didn't. He didn't particularly want to be sucked out of this temporary prison only to join the armadillos and other road-kill in a much more permanent one, never mind that there weren't any armadillos in Vermont.

But he couldn't remain trapped his entire life. Eventually he could break away, he knew it. He wouldn't do it like Neil had, though. No matter how bad things got, he wouldn't follow Neil.

Which brought Todd right back around to a question he had been asking himself since it happened: why? Todd knew what hadn't been good enough to keep him from pulling the trigger, what hadn't meant enough to Neil to make him put the gun down, but what had been bad enough to make him pick in up in the first place? Todd wished he could speak to Neil just one more time, ask him, learn the story of what had happened.

And then, all at once, images of Mr. Keating's first lesson came floating back, just whispers and ghosts of images at first. The faded pictures of old football players, their stories lost forever, their legacies meaningless now that they were simply food for worms, now that their corpses were too preoccupied fertilizing daffodils to teach any lesson to their younger counterparts.

Which was, Todd realized, what the Captain had been trying to do. To impart in the boys what knowledge could no longer be gathered from those who already truly understood it. O Captain!, Todd thought. O Captain! My Captain! I'll learn. I'll learn and understand everything you tried to teach us, everything Neil couldn't learn. I'll learn it and I'll pass it on, hoping that someday, someone will be able to do more. To do more, be more… gotta do more… gotta be more… and then Todd's ears were filled with chanting and bongos, his nose with damp earth, and he couldn't keep anything straight anymore. There were too many memories rolling over him, and too much road rolling under him, and it was just too much to take in at once… he breathed, and with the new breath rolling through him, fell into a fitful sleep.

He dreamed. He dreamed the same dream he always dreamed. The same dream that invaded his mind every time he managed to fall asleep, every time he could tear his eyes away from the empty bed across from him long enough to pretend, just for a moment, that everything was all right and that it was safe to sleep. And though the dream never changed, and though nothing ever even happened in it, he always awoke breathing hard, his muscles sore and tense.

In his dream, the room was filled with mirrors on all sides, dozens or maybe hundreds of mirrors, all reflecting the single flickering candle a thousandfold and casting a strange light over the whole place. Neil laid on a cold metal table, naked, his pale skin covered over in goosebumps. Todd's eyes shifted between Neil's pleading gaze and his neck, so pale that it almost reflected the silver blade in Todd's grip. The great axe, its body heavy in Todd's hands, poised a few feet above Neil's beautiful, graceful neck. If he would just let it fall, the blade was so paper-thin and so razor-sharp that it would cut through Neil's skin and bone so easily, and sever his vocal chords so quickly, that by the time he could think to scream, it would be too late.

But he didn't scream. Instead, he begged. "Please. Please, Todd, just… do it. Get it over with."  
Todd, who had been staring at the other boy's neck, now met his eyes. "I can't. I couldn't do that to you."  
"But you will!" Neil protested, "I know you will, eventually. Can't you just do it now? The waiting's the worst part."  
Todd shook his head. How long had he been holding this axe? He hadn't let it waver even once, hadn't allowed his hand to tremble or his grip to falter. How could Neil think that he would drop it? "Don't you trust me?"

Neil smiled sadly, tears filling his eyes. "I trust human nature, Todd. I love you, but you're only human." Neil reached up and placed his hands around Todd's, his back arching so that he could grip them more easily. He tugged downwards, and Todd, tired, couldn't fight him off. He watched hopelessly as the axe came closer and closer to Neil's perfect skin, watched as Neil stopped pulling just an inch from a bloody death.

"See?" The dark-eyed boy asked him, his gaze nearly blank. "Human."

He gave one last tug downward, and Todd squeezed his eyes shut.

He woke up panting. That was certainly a new ending. Usually Neil just lay there, begging for death.

But, Todd realized, Neil's actions weren't the only new things. Neil hadn't stuck to the script. He had said… had said that he loved Todd.

A completely uncharacteristic sense of glee rose in Todd's throat, sending his heart beating just a bit faster. His stomach fluttered, and he didn't know why. He and Neil were friends, nothing more. And besides, they were both straight.

…weren't they?

It didn't matter. One of the only things worse than being gay would be being a necrophiliac. Loving Neil would require both, and Todd was neither.

"Wake up!" That damn poisonous hiss again. Todd didn't bother to correct her, to tell her that he had been awake for a few minutes now. He nodded, even though she couldn't see him, and finally made his escape from the prison of metal and cloth only to enter one made of much more solid stuff moments later.

The driver had dropped them off in front of the house and was taking the car around to the garage. He would, of course, bring Todd's bags into the house later. So Todd, without those, had only his coat to hand to the maid that met him at the door. Besides a quick nod, though, she barely acknowledged his presence and instead turned to his mother.

"Oh, ma'am! Jeffrey called. He and Catilin will be here in another two hours. He was driving home, he said, and saw a payphone on the side of the road, just sitting there, can you imagine? Well, he just stopped right there to call us and let us know when to expect him! He's just so thoughtful, that boy…"  
Todd didn't stay to hear his mother's reply. It was probably some loving comment about his older brother, mixed with a rushed command to re-polish or re-dust some precious family heirloom, or to add a flower arrangement to the small marble table near the entrance. As he climbed the stairs, he noticed that the door to his father's study was ajar and that light was seeping out. Judging from the quiet music coming from the phonograph--jazz, his father's favorite despite his mother's disapproval of "that damn nigger music,"--he had chosen this location more to get away from his wife's insane cleaning habits than to actually get work done.

Because he didn't have a study of his own to retreat to, and because entering his father's was unthinkable, Todd climbed the rest of the stairs up to his room. It was fairly plain, with white walls, a white comforter with navy blue and emerald green stripes, and an old Balincrest pennant on his headboard. On the opposite side of the room, directly above a beautifully polished mahogany desk, hung a newer Welton pennant and, next to this red cloth triangle, a small postcard featuring a picture of Columbia University's main building. Todd had posted it on his wall picture-side-out both to remind himself of where it was he was expected to end up in a year and a half, as well as to avoid reading the message his brother had written in a careful, meticulous script that would have made Cameron jealous.

Not that it mattered that Todd couldn't see it, of course. He had long since memorized the measly five sentences:

Todd,

I hope this message finds you well and that you are enjoying the last

weeks of summer. Things are quite busy here. I'm sure you'll understand the feeling well once you start at Welton. Do remember to give my regards to all of the old teachers, and especially to Mr. Nolan. Send my regards to Mother and Father, as well.

Best wishes,

Jeffrey Anderson

Todd supposed that he ought to be thankful that he would get a full five sentences from Jeffrey Anderson, golden boy extraordinaire. And, he noted with a bitter laugh, a full two sentences _weren't_ dedicated to school! Granted, only one of these two demonstrated any sort of interest in Todd's personal wellbeing, but that was entirely expected. Why would Jeffrey Anderson, valedictorian, National Merit Scholar, Columbia honors student, star athlete, good Samaritan and savoir of all mankind, take any interest in Todd, who only managed to trudge along the path his older brother had forged? He didn't deserve Jeffrey's attention.

Todd grinned as he imagined ripping the postcard apart, tearing the condescending words into mixed-up, meaningless letters, then shredding those, too, until they were nothing more than lines and dots, completely worthless in every sense of the word.

Instead, though, he crossed the room to his bed and seated himself on the edge of it, slipped his uncomfortable dress shoes off without untying them, and fell backwards. He knees were still bent over the edge of his mattress, his feet brushing against the floor, while his eyes stared up at the ceiling above him. It, like his walls, was plain and white and utterly boring.

On a whim, Todd sat bolt upright and grinned. He stood up and padded over to the desk, grabbing a black permanent marker from one of the drawers. Making his way back over to the bed, his socks making soft _thuds_ against the hardwood floor, he marveled at his own nerve. Maybe, subconsciously, he was trying to follow Neil's example after all, because this would surely get him murdered… if his parents even noticed.

He climbed onto his bed again, this time standing. He was just short enough to reach the ceiling without any sort of awkward bending, but tall enough to not have to stretch to do so. It was if he had been built to… write on ceilings while standing on a bed? Perhaps not the greatest destiny, not the most purposeful life purpose, but, hey, he supposed it was something. He paused to consider this for a moment, then drew two cartoonish eyes. Underneath that, in slightly awkward lettering, he wrote:

How does the world look from down there?

Todd hesitated, then. Something was missing. He remained there, staring at his writing, chewing lightly on the end of the marker. A few more moments passed like this, then he grinned. Under what he had already written, he added:  
--with love from the sweaty-toothed madman

There. Todd capped the marker and hopped off his bed, landing cat-like on all fours, so as not to make much noise. He returned the marker to its spot. Sighing contentedly, he glanced about the room. Now what?

That was the problem with spontaneity, he thought. It felt great to stand up and be heroic (even if your idea of heroism involved writing on your ceiling), but you always ended up feeling empty and let down afterwards. After the initial adrenaline that came along with rebellion left your system, your stupidity came to light and you just wanted to crawl in a hole. See, Todd did well enough with the adrenaline. He could (at least, now, after the Captain had taught him) act stupid and brave on a whim. It was the awkwardness that came afterwards, when he was left to think over what he had just done, that he had trouble dealing with.

People like Neil and Charlie could handle the after-effects of spontaneity well. Todd, though, was left to glance around self-consciously and lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling.

He sighed and pulled his knees up to his chest, while adding this new discovery to his mental list.

_Things That Are Still More or Less Certain:_

_I will never see Neil again_

_I will never get the hang of being spontaneous_

_

* * *

**A/N: All right, so I said I'd explain.  
****First, the comment about the only thing worse than being gay is necrophilia. I, personally, am in no way homophobic, a gay-hater, etc. This is, quite honestly, what I think the mindset of a teenage boy who is afraid to question his sexuality would be in that time period.  
****Second, the use of the "n-word." I always imagined Todd's mother coming from an aristocratic Southern family (despite her lack of an accent in the movie) and his father coming from a wealthy northern family that lives in a big northern city. Todd's mother would (especially keeping in mind that this movie takes place in 1959) probably have a sense of hatred towards African Americans that may or may not (leaning towards "may" at this point) play a larger role in the overall story later on. Therefore, I thought this would be a good chapter to introduce this kind of thought.  
The statements of the characters do not necessarily reflect my own personal views (especially in these two examples).**_

_**Anyway, sorry for the long Author's Notes.  
I'd love to see some reviews in my inbox! (They make me write faster, -hinthint-)  
Thanks!  
--Phantaz **_


End file.
